


Lonely Boys, Sons of Men

by narie



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Canon-Typical Abuse References, Gap Filler, Gen, Past Sexual Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-23
Updated: 2016-03-23
Packaged: 2018-05-28 09:26:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6323896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/narie/pseuds/narie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His uncle was waiting on the other side, of course, seated at a low table filled with food. He was wearing the crown of Vere, and he said, "Come in, Laurent."</p><p>"Uncle," he replied, allowing himself to be pushed through the door. "What a pleasant surprise."</p><p>- </p><p>or, a conversation on the eve of Laurent's trial.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lonely Boys, Sons of Men

**Author's Note:**

> With heartfelt gratitude to the patient people who cheered and shepherded this story along, theLiterator and nonny4; above all to [floss](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/floss) for her ceaseless encouragement and fantastic beta work. All remaining mistakes are solely my own.

The cells underneath the palace at Ios were cells like any other, Laurent suspected; they were certainly similar to the one he'd briefly occupied in Fortaine. Small, dank, and dark, the only furnishing – if it could indeed be called that – a pile of straw in one corner that he worried was meant to double as bedding and slop bucket.

In the hours since he had been shoved inside with too much relish by his uncle's men Laurent had had time to think, to trace back all the times his uncle anticipated and outmanoeuvred him. He had known for days, of course, what Damen and he would find atop the Kingsmeet, had stopped to talk at each statue to postpone the moment as long as he could. It had not been a very difficult decision to come to terms with, offering his life for that of an unknown child, not when he weighed everything that hung in the balance, but he had not expected to be played for such a fool.

Crossing Akielos under false pretence, all the while letting himself be cherished by Damen, cherishing him in return and dreaming of a different future in moments stolen here and there, had been much harder. Auguste would have never walked the hill to the Kingsmeet with Damen with falsehood between them, like Laurent had done. They would have worked together, his brother and his lover, devising a plan that could not have been turned awry with a single well-aimed sentence because Auguste had held no secrets like Laurent's, because he was not the one who had—

He recalled Damen's face, turning into a mask of abject disgust at the top of the hill; recalled also his horror, and the threats he had made in reply to his uncle's words. And the sword, swift and deadly, the gold cuff flashing in its wake, goring the men who tried to stop him, six lives gone in an instant. Damianos of Akielos, prince-killer, fighting for Laurent — someone come to rescue him at last, after so many years alone, and Laurent left with no choice but to surrender all the same. Even now, he could not fail to appreciate the irony.

Still, he refused to give himself over to despair. Laurent had rooted through the straw as soon as the cell door clanged shut, in search of anything of use, but no imaginary secret ally or past occupant had left a dagger for him to find, or a knife, or any other thing. Had he been solely at the mercy of Kastor of Akielos Laurent would have expected not to live until morning. He would have been found tomorrow, perhaps having hung himself, perhaps having bled out, but always with a signed confession next to his cold body. But his uncle's love for spectacle, for public humiliation, had the advantage of being both predictable and familiar, so Laurent had whiled away the day sitting in the deepest corner of the cell dissecting increasingly unlikely scenarios for his escape, and listening attentively to all sounds from beyond the door. When he heard the scuffing of booted feet moving his way he was not wholly unprepared.

He rose and straightened his chiton. This morning he had taken great care to pin it in place with the bejewelled starburst badge his uncle had given him in Vere, the one Auguste had worn to his own death. Damen had said nothing, and possibly thought him needlessly brazen — after all, they were meeting a nursemaid, no more; Laurent had kept his true reasons his own. When the door opened he was passively uncooperative as three men - his countrymen by their look and armour, wearing livery it took him a second to recognise as the King's own, so far from home - flanked him and one of them said, "You will come with us."

They led him in silence through plain corridors clearly reserved for servants and slaves. One of the guards walked ahead, the second pressing the point of his sword into Laurent's back and the third further back. They had bound neither his arms nor his legs, and Laurent was certain they were under strict orders not to injure him. The thought of ducking away from them, disappearing into one of the unadorned hallways that intermittently spread beyond open archways on their left and right was tempting, but ultimately futile — Laurent had no allies here, and no true knowledge of the palace or the city beyond it; escape was far from guaranteed — so instead he kept his head high as they walked, and made it a point to meet the gaze of anyone brash enough to look his way.

They halted at a door guarded by two more men, also in the uniform of the King's Guard, standing at sharp attention. One of them rapped a warning on the door and without waiting for an answer waved Laurent and his escort through.

His uncle was waiting on the other side, of course, seated at a low table filled with food. He was wearing the crown of Vere, and he said, "Come in, Laurent."

Nausea rose in his throat at the sight, and he made no attempt at obeisance, concentrating instead on tempering his breath. "Uncle," he said, allowing himself to be pushed through the door. "What a pleasant surprise."

"You might be accused of treason, nephew, but you are still a prince." The smile that accompanied his uncle's words made a mockery of familiar warmth. "The palace cells are no place for you. I thought we might dine together."

"I'm not hungry," Laurent said. It was a reflex, and also a lie: he had not eaten anything since setting off at dawn with Damen, since they had begun their ascent. The lesson not to trust anything his uncle offered had been learned long ago.

His uncle gestured his acceptance with a small sip of wine. "As you wish. You will at least sit down?"

With the point of a sword still pressing into his back and two more guards outside the door there was little point in resisting. And for all that he wanted to see him dead, Laurent reminded himself that his uncle had never been the type to actually bloody his hands. He sat, allowed himself to relax against the cushions of the low Akielon couch his uncle had directed him to, at an angle to the one his uncle was occupying, the small dining table between them. Whatever the reason behind this summons, it would be a battle of words, not of arms.

"You see," his uncle said to the guards, "he won't harm me. Leave us." And then, with what Laurent had used to mistake, years ago, for a fond and indulgent gaze, he poured water from a pitcher at his side into a clean cup and offered it to him.

"A toast," he said, raising his own cup.

He could not stop himself: "And what do we toast to?”

"Many things. Justice. Victory. The end of your childish games."

Laurent's hand stilled.

"Nephew," his uncle sighed and lowered his cup, like he had not known precisely how Laurent would react. "Is this really how you want to treat your only surviving family? And your King?"

"My King?" he echoed levelly. The relish in his uncle's words was obvious, poorly disguised, and while Laurent would not let his own voice betray him so, he forced himself to stare at the crown on his uncle's head, not bothering with subtlety. His uncle would not be so clumsy as to wear it in public yet, but the rules of the game always changed when the two of them played it alone. "Is that what you think you are?”

"Of course, there's that. I was told you have been frolicking around the Akielon countryside, calling yourself the true King of Vere."

The last time he had seen the crown had been years ago, at the ceremony that had ushered his uncle's regency and had seen all of the tokens of his parents' house bequeathed into the custody of the Council, to be held in their trust until Laurent came of age. He had stood there, all of thirteen years old, straight back and red-rimmed eyes, signing his name to court documents he had never dreamed of with a newly cut quill. His uncle’s soothing voice at his side had promised safety and warmth and eventually delivered neither. "Because that's what I am," he eventually said, once the silence had stretched enough. "Only a traitor would dispute that."

The studied casualness in his uncle's face vanished for an instant, his gaze sharpening in a way that Laurent remembered teaching himself to imitate, before. Back then. "Watch your mouth, boy."

When they sparred like this, staying even with his uncle could be hard enough. Laurent's tongue had been sharpened by long practice although his uncle had been witness to most of it, and he was not wholly confident in his ability to outfox him. But unlike most of their encounters before, Laurent was suddenly aware that he held the smallest of advantages here, realised that no matter what he said or did, his survival was assured until morning. It also made him likely to avoid a bad beating at the hand of the guards, despite how insolently he behaved. His uncle would not want him looking pitiful and broken tomorrow morning — it would offend his sense of spectacle and unbalance his plans, if Laurent was able to garner sympathy solely by already looking defeated when he entered the room. This knowledge made him bold, and also a bit heady. There was a freedom that sprung from having nothing left to lose, and it made him ask, “Or what? You'll cut out my tongue, finish the task you set Govart? But then you wouldn't get your sham of a trial tomorrow. So no. Tonight I believe I'll speak my mind, uncle. After all, there's hardly anything you can do to me that you haven't already done."

"Oh, Laurent. You forget we are not in Vere," his uncle said with another disappointed sigh. "Did you ever ask Damianos how criminals are executed here? They don't like things painless in Akielos. After Damianos murdered his father the kingdom had to be purged of his treachery. Some of his followers were fortunate, and died quickly by the sword. But the others..." he trailed off, leaning forward and resting one casual hand on Laurent's knee. Laurent felt his breathing hitch and berated himself for it, but he did not look down. "Shall I tell you what they did to them?"

“There’s no need,” said Laurent, with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I’m sure it’s just as barbaric as the rest of this land.” But his uncle was right, he grudgingly admitted to himself. This was something he had not considered. And while death was death — quick, slow, it would all lead to the same unavoidable place — Laurent’s mind suddenly filled with pictures of bodies he had seen before. The horrible gurgling moans of soldiers with arrows piercing their lungs, drowning slowly to their deaths, the desperate mewls of men whose insides lay around them, hired assassins bleeding in Laurent's own room; against them, memories of Auguste’s unmarred face at Marlas, of Damen's swift sword.

"Some of his men were flayed alive," his uncle said. "There would be some poetry in that, would there not? But speaking of barbaric..." and here he paused to gesture casually at their surroundings, the implication clear, and also a lie. They were in what was clearly a well-appointed suite of apartments, likely meant for royal guests, and although they were far emptier and sparser than anything in Vere, their luxury was easy to read all the same. Long expanses of smooth white marble wall were interrupted by stylised Akielon tapestries, and there was a scattering of colourful figurines on a side table, none of which, however, looked firm or sharp enough to make a good weapon; against the far wall, a writing desk and chair, both with finely carved wooden legs. “What _are_ you wearing, nephew? I would hardly call this," and with the hand he was still resting on Laurent’s knee, reached out to grab the hem of the chiton, lifting it carelessly, his fingertips skimming Laurent's leg, but his eyes fixed on Laurent's face, "appropriate wear for a Veretian prince."

He let the fabric drop, and it resettled softly against Laurent's thighs, suddenly not nearly long enough. Laurent longed for the snug, suffocating trappings of his tightly laced jackets, his elaborate pants, but instead he forced his lips into the sharpest smile he could muster and said, "Well, once I was far from Arles there was no longer a need to keep every inch of myself covered up, was there?"

"So barbaric," his uncle repeated. "So different from the rooms at Chastillon, don't you think?"

Laurent laughed; it was a mirthless sound, short and dismissive. "Uncle, please. We both know I'm ten years too old for you. Is your new whore really that disappointing?" He shifted his legs purposefully, crossing them, and the chiton slid back down and resettled. His uncle’s hand had no choice but to withdraw. Laurent tamped down on the desire to smile.

His uncle reached for his cup once more and said, "You played our game better than I expected, I must say."

"I had a good advisor. I should thank you for him."

"He gave you more than just advice, as I understand it. Did you enjoy spreading your legs for the man who killed your brother, just for half an army and some Akielon gold?”

Since Fortaine Laurent had had time to grow accustomed to the weight of the cuff on his arm. And until he had donned the chiton it had lain invisible under the laces of his clothes, but here in the lamplight it shone, and drew the eye. “I must have, since I asked him to give it to me,” Laurent said, holding it up so it caught the light, and then draped his wrist over the side of the reclining couch, making sure it remained in full sight. “Do you like it? I think it suits me.”

"It certainly speaks to who you are." He shook his head, as if to clear lingering echoes of Laurent's words from it. "Did you know, when he fucked you, that it was Damianos of Akielos between your legs? What would Auguste have said?"

"I am confident he would be angrier at knowing that you fucked me."

His uncle's expression tightened for an instant, thick with distaste, but he regained control and said, "You were always so close to your brother — unnaturally so, some people said, although of course I quashed such talk whenever I chanced upon it."

"I cannot imagine why,” he drawled. “After all, better to have the court think I missed my brother's cock than to wonder too much about where you were sticking yours."

This time his uncle exhaled, an amused huff. "Oh, Laurent,” he said, "I think I might miss you and your clever tongue. But even so, you have lost, and I have won, and in five years no one will remember your name."

"And they'll only know yours as that of a dead usurper. Tomorrow morning Damianos will return to his armies and begin marching upon this city. And he will not rest until he has taken back his kingdom and your head is rotting on a spike, next to mine."

"Next to yours? You don't think he will storm the palace to save you? No ill-conceived heroic rescue attempt doomed to failure?" His uncle stood and paced around the room, slow and carefree, with his arms loosely clasped behind his back, and for a few seconds Laurent allowed himself to imagine just that - Damen and their army, storming into the throne room at Ios tomorrow morning, or into the public square right as the sword threatened to fall on Laurent's head. Damen, putting a stop to it all because he was loyal and good to a fault, and would not need more than a night to forgive Laurent for his deception. But the trap was too obvious, and the fantasy only ended with both of their heads mounted on spikes, two more of his uncle's cautionary tales. "But he pleaded so valiantly for you, this morning.”

"He's smarter than that," replied Laurent, and hoped he was right.

"And if he isn’t? What do you think would happen tomorrow, if he were to ride in and demand your release, pledge his allegiance to you? After all, he is nothing but further proof of your treachery. And the Council is already baying for your head.”

“I can’t imagine you need his help to ensure that tomorrow I’m found guilty of your crimes,” he said. But for all that Laurent had moved him outside his uncle's reach now, Damen _had_ been a weapon, of course; the sharpest of them all. That much had been apparent from the start. What none of them had anticipated was that he would choose to be _Laurent_ 's weapon. It had not been so easy to tolerate that choice, to push away thoughts of his brother lying dead at Damen's hands, and sometimes he found himself questioning whether his companionship was truly something Auguste would forgive. But Auguste would have been kind. He would have understood.

“Indeed, nephew,” his uncle said, choosing to let the accusation slide. His pacing stopped, and he came to stand in front of Laurent. “Damianos won’t save you. Not tomorrow, and certainly not now. You were foolish to surrender yourself for him." And, then, with sudden viciousness he added, "Get on your knees. Kneel for your King."

Laurent didn't move. His only acknowledgement of the command was letting his gaze travel to the crown again, allowing his mouth to visibly curl with distaste. "You are not my King," he said, as slowly and clearly as he could.

His uncle's eyes narrowed, his tone sharper the second time around: "You know I hate repeating myself, Laurent. Our game is over, and you have lost. _Kneel_."

Without moving from the reclining couch, Laurent reached forward and grabbed the first bite-sized piece of fruit his fingers came across. "Uncle, you can kill me, and you can steal my crown, but I'll never kneel for you again. You're just an usurper," he said, and with carefully practiced insouciance brought the morsel to his mouth. He was going to die tomorrow, he reminded himself. He would go to his grave on his own terms.

"All right," said his uncle in reply. "We'll do this your way."

He rose and called loudly for his guard, voice flighty as if he had just narrowly avoided being attacked by Laurent. Almost immediately, the three men who had brought Laurent to him burst into the room and came to stand between the two of them. "I was mistaken," said his uncle, his posture suddenly that of a righteously frightened man. It could have almost been a performance worth admiring, had the novelty of his duplicity not worn off long ago. "This man is dangerous. Restrain him."

Two of the guards rushed forward and reached for Laurent, lifting him from his couch and holding him in place while the third one punched him in the stomach, hard, without warning or hesitation, and then a second time. While he was doubled over gasping for air they shoved him to the ground, and wrenched his arms behind his back, clasping heavy iron manacles around his wrists. A booted foot pressed down against his back, holding him in place until his uncle dismissed the guards again, forestalling any protest by reassuring them he would not hesitate to summon them if needed.

As soon as the foot lifted Laurent rolled to his side, aiming to put distance between the two of them, but the moment he came to his knees a heavy hand fell on the nape of his neck and held him down. His uncle had acted quickly, and was standing at his side. With his breath still coming in short gasps and his arms trapped behind his back Laurent found he didn’t have enough leverage to resist the gentle tugging on his head so that it came to rest against his uncle’s hip. Idly he ran his fingers through Laurent’s hair, once, twice, and he smiled as he said, “Now, that's better. You were always most beautiful like this, nephew."

It required all of Laurent’s control, but he refused to give his uncle the satisfaction of wrenching his head away and scrambling backwards until he reached the far wall of the room, no matter that it was the only thing his body wanted to do. Instead he forced his hands to unclench, and his breathing to even — he could do nothing for the syncopated beating of his heart, but he was the only one who could sense that — and waited until his uncle stepped aside before rising, slowly, as steadily as he could.

His uncle had moved too. In their eagerness to reach Laurent the guards had upended the small table that had stood between the two of them and all manner of food and fripperies had fallen and spilled, while water and wine mingled and spread across the pristine tiled floor. He was now seated at the desk, having turned the chair to face Laurent. Were he to rise and take a step or two, they would bring him within arm’s length. Laurent refused to grant him the satisfaction of backing away more.

“You are right that I won’t cut off your tongue tonight — although you do make it quite tempting. But do not for a moment think me weaponless. You will obey,” his uncle said, his voice taut with danger, “or the next time I will not tell the King’s Guard to be gentle.”

Without looking away from Laurent he reached into his jacket, withdrawing a small vial from its folds. He placed it on the desk, and a hint of a smile appeared on his face as he heard the small hesitation in Laurent’s breathing that he failed to disguise. “Now get back on your knees. I did not say you could rise.”

Laurent considered his options. Outside the door at least five soldiers stood in wait, probably under orders to rush in at the slightest noise. Damen had defeated six mercenaries when he’d been bound like this, but Laurent would not. He knew he could not. He could try to throw himself against the table, and hope that the vial would clatter to the ground, out of his uncle’s reach, but the odds were slim, and against him; he would not reach his uncle and the table in the same move. And even then, the vial could break and its contents scatter, or roll to a stop in front of his uncle's feet. Against any other man he would have accepted that risk, but—

“What are you waiting for? Would you like me to send for Symmonet? Perhaps he’d like to watch…”

The mention of the child chilled him, but he still managed to ask, "Is it part of the appeal that your whores always have such foolish names, uncle?" A list far longer than he’d like ran through his head.

His uncle tilted his head, considering him, and said, “Or maybe, perhaps it is that _you_ ’d like to watch?”

“ _No_ ,” he replied instinctively — too quickly, he immediately realised — and hoped the horror he could hear in his voice could be mistaken for resolve. “You wouldn’t do that. And besides, I’m in no mood to teach lessons tonight,” he added, and hoped it would disguise his mistake. But he knew his uncle's eyes were sharp.

“Wouldn’t I? Maybe not. But do you really want to find out?”

“No,” he repeated, and this time the defeat was impossible to hide. His arms weighed heavy behind him, the irons around his left wrist relentlessly driving the gold cuff into his skin, and something inside his right shoulder was beginning to unpleasantly throb. As his mouth filled with an ashen taste, Laurent lowered himself to the ground under his uncle’s approving gaze, and hated both of them for it.

"There," said his uncle, gaze deeply satisfied. "I truly wish you wouldn't always take the hardest path. You have already knelt for your uncle, Laurent — is it really that much harder to kneel for your king?"

There was no point in replying — a third denial would earn him nothing but scorn. After some moments his uncle spoke again, bringing his hands together, fingers interlaced. “Did you know, nephew, that you weren't always going to die? Even when you stopped listening to my advice, I would have let you live out your days in Acquitart, if you hadn't become so fractious. Your guard would have been loyal to me, of course, but beyond that you would have had your freedom."

"My freedom," he echoed, voice too rich with disbelief. "To watch you rule the kingdom you stole from me?" Even as his uncle's ambitions had grown bolder, and clearer, Laurent had imagined their battle would end on the day of his ascension, for better or for worse. The idea of a whole life lived in this man's thrall had never crossed his mind. It was impossible, unfathomable. He would have been driven mad. Whatever form of death awaited him tomorrow was preferable to that.

"Yes, I agree. It was ill thought out," said his uncle, rising and moving to Laurent’s side once more. This time he reached for Laurent's face, fingers softly mapping his way down his jaw. The touch held all the familiarity of a lover, but none of the affection, and it filled Laurent with barely concealed disgust. He realised with some surprise that that he couldn't quite decide whether he preferred it to the blunt, deep pain of Govart and his knife. "But can you blame me? You really were irresistible, Laurent. I could have taught you so much, if only you had let me. Instead you defy me, and see where it has led you.”

Silence stretched between them once more, and his uncle's fingers tightened on his jaw, forcing it upwards so they could look each other in the eye as he said, “The problem with you, Laurent, has ever been that you think you’re an even match for me. But you never were.”

“Is that so?” he said. “Because this morning you could have ordered Damianos, whose army is undefeated and marches towards you, dead, and instead you chose me.” 

“Sentiment,” replied his uncle, hand dropping away. “Family ties. I am trying to give you the last chance you clearly do not deserve.”

“No. I don’t believe that’s it,” said Laurent, recalling towns, gathering to watch him and his company ride by, on the way to Ravenel. His people, cheering their prince. Unbidden, he remembered Auguste – they had celebrated him too. At exhibitions and tourneys, following endless hours of practicing against his sword master in the training yard while Laurent watched half-heartedly, long before he'd had a reason to care. He remembered Auguste wiping sweat off his face, explaining, _an opponent who always parries and never strikes is frustrating, but not a real threat_. His next words were a heady gamble. “I think you’re afraid of me.”

Sitting back in the chair, his uncle laughed at that, again with something like genuine amusement in his expression. “And what should I be afraid of? Your infantile words? The Akielon army you bought by spreading your legs? Where are your countrymen, nephew? Why don’t they fight for you? What keeps them from rushing into Akielos to come to the service of their untested, insolent prince?”

“They would fight, if I asked," he replied. He caught sight of the jewelled badge shining bright on his chest, his ill-fitting birthright. "Marches, Varenne, Alier. They would come. And that’s why you need this trial. You know if you kill me otherwise it will be war.” And war would be a tragedy for all. Damen would defeat his uncle and retake Ios, of that much Laurent was certain. But without regent or prince Vere would collapse, and for all the hours he had lain awake thinking his plans through as they crossed the Akielon countryside, he had conjured no means of avoiding this. His mother's family would make a claim for the empty throne. And Damen, Damen would too, he was certain. They held the centre together, Arran and Alier and Delfeur and the forts upon them, and Damen would not easily give that up. He would know that open war there would spill into Akielos, and Laurent's sacrifice would convince him that it was his duty to hold and stabilise those lands, maybe even that he owed it to Laurent. Vere would not take kindly to an Akielon king, but she would take even less kindly to no king at all.

“You need a performance. Shall I perform for you, tomorrow?" he continued, speaking the words with a venomous thrill. "That would please you, wouldn’t it?”

“It would go easiest for you if you showed repentance, yes.”

“Shall I tell everyone how you took advantage of me?” He spoke over his uncle’s words. He had dreamt of it, more than once, of standing in the audience chamber back in Arles with the courage and the means to denounce his uncle's crimes, and being believed. It always left him unsteady and angry, and since the heralds at Karthas — and at Ravenel — it had gained both frequency and weight. 

“A pleasant fancy,” said his uncle. “And a misguided one. But let us entertain it, nephew. Tomorrow you stand up and tell the Council about how you begged me not to leave you alone after your brother's death, how you cajoled me into your bed. And then what do you think will happen? Where is your proof, Laurent? It can hardly be hidden in the folds of your rags, after all,” he added, dismissively sweeping his eyes down them again.

“Your other whores. Your endless parade of boys.”

“And they will speak for you? Where are they? You goaded Aimeric to his death, as I understand it, and left Nicaise in Arles with little other than regret at having trusted you. The whole council wants you dead; even Herode has seen through your deceit. I am not afraid of you, nephew,“ he said. “Quite the opposite, in fact — I am the only one you have left.”

“I'd rather be alone,” said Laurent.

"Alone is how you will die. Alone, and for nothing." There was finality in his tone, and satisfaction once more. "The child you were so willing to surrender yourself for, do you know — I have no idea where he is. The Akielon whore has hidden him from me.”

“I had guessed that,” he said. It was only partially a lie. He had hoped Jokaste would do something of the sort, but it had been another foolish gamble on his part, insurance against Laurent's failure to do what he had come here to.

“And so, nephew, why come then? Why surrender yourself? You say you are a threat to me, but then you make decisions like these. I do not feel threatened.”

“Because Damianos didn't know. And if I was wrong — I didn't like the idea of what you did to me happening to another.” There had been more than enough already.

"What I did to you? You are no innocent victim.”

“I was a _child_ ,” he said, regretting the sudden vehemence in his voice. Maintaining his control was a struggle, but between the two of them also a need. Laurent knew what anger did to him. Damen had seen through it in weeks; his uncle, with years of experience, had long used it against him, and known the best ways to goad him.

“Old enough to know what you wanted, as I recall.”

“I was a child, and I was alone.” Alone, and confused, and in the care of people far more invested in his value as a symbol than as a newly orphaned boy. But his tone had been even and dispassionate this time, and that, at least, was satisfying.

“Oh, you enjoyed it — you all do. Two years of my undivided attention I gave you, and this is how you act. It’s such a shame to see what you’ve chosen to become.”

“Yes,” said Laurent. “It is a shame.”

"Do you want to know why I told him?" his uncle asked with careful casualness. "Damianos, I mean."

"I have some idea," Laurent replied. Had he had such a sharp weapon, he would not have hesitated to use it either. 

"I wanted to see his face. I had hoped to see _your_ face, when you learned who he was, but it seems at that you did outsmart me," he said, and Laurent thought he heard the faintest trace of pride in the admission, but much diminished under the frustration at having been thwarted. "But _his_ face... Do you think that if you were somehow reunited he would be able to bed you again? He was so angry on your behalf, it's true, but do you think he would be able to forget who has been inside you before?"

"It doesn't matter," he replied, but he could not help but wonder, too. In this respect, if in nothing else, there was a small comfort in remaining ignorant. Fighting alongside someone and forgiving them their past deeds were two wholly different things. "You've seen to that."

"Akielons are simple creatures, and I do believe you probably disgust him now. But you still haven't answered me, and I am curious - when did you know?"

Laurent considered his options. "What would you rather hear, uncle, that I knew who he was when I bedded him? Or that he told me afterwards, whispering his true name to me as we lay in the dark, a painful truth to destroy me? Either way I should think you already have enough to bring your trumped up charges." A straightforward answer, honest or not, would have easily been seen through; for all that this was a deflection and not an attack it was the best choice.

"Your taste for insolence, Laurent, has always been one of your worst tendencies."

"Uncle, do not pretend you are that much better than me. I have my flaws, but what are they, truly, next to yours?" His breathing was coming in fast starts, he realised, chest rising and falling visibly under the chiton. The satisfaction of speaking freely took him by surprise, and he allowed himself to savour his words as he said, "We both know that you are little more than an usurper and a child fucker.”

With three swift strides his uncle crossed the space between them and slapped Laurent, hard. Without his arms to steady him the force of the blow sent him staggering backwards and to one side, and he landed uncomfortably, the many sharp points of the starburst badge digging into his skin. It didn’t hurt nearly as much as it could have, and the sudden coppery notes on his tongue were a worthy price to pay for the satisfaction of having driven his uncle to strike him. They served only to make him feel even more heedless and fey as he straightened again, this time rising to his full height.

"I told you to mind your tongue. Perhaps we should put it to another use," his uncle said, and directed his gaze at the little stoppered flask on the desk, although it was an ineffective threat. The slap, and Laurent's fall, had left him too far away. With a single quick step Laurent braced his back against the edge of the desk, manacled hands searching behind him. When they finally closed, relieved, around the vial he said, "I haven't had to ask my lovers to drug me in a long time.”

“You haven't had any lovers in a long time,” said his uncle, seemingly unperturbed. He must have realised that the reversal in their positions carried not so much a threat with it as a standstill. “With the exception of the Akielon, of course, and I don't expect it bothered him whether you were willing or not. Tell me, did you have much say in the matter?”

Laurent would not share the real intimacies of the nights he had spent with Damen, the generous way in which Damen had fucked him and the myriad ways in which it differed from all he had known before. But he had learned young the kind of weapon intimacy could be, and he did not hesitate before replying, “Oh yes. He's a far better and more considerate fuck than you, truth be told. He apologised to me, too. Told me he was sorry for all that has happened to me. I could have killed him — and I could've laughed: Damianos the prince-killer telling me I didn't deserve any of it." It was a dangerous memory — too sharp, too easy to lose himself remembering what had come next. Damen's honest affection was not something he could think about now.

"And yet you didn't. I cannot help but wonder why."

"Since you keep on asking, uncle, I will tell you something: I sucked his cock - and I enjoyed it," he said, and took a savage pleasure in discovering that his actions were not tarnished by the admission of them. "It made for a nice change."

They stared at each other in wary silence for a time. Laurent shifted against the table, unclenching his hands, taking advantage of the calm to unfurl fingers that had begun to cramp, to stretch his long legs in front of him. His breathing slowed down now that he had seen his gambit through, but his uncle's had not, and his expression was drawn. If he had thought to find Laurent pliant and repentant, an echo of the morning, he was more than glad to prove a disappointment.

"I believe I see the advantage now," his uncle said, and once more Laurent followed his gaze down his own body and realised that he had trapped the fabric of the chiton between him and the table, so that it had ridden up. Much of his thigh was bared, and as he moved to free the cloth a thought struck him. He kept his gaze low, trusting in his hair falling over his eyes and shielding the victory that was doubtlessly in them, although he could not trouble himself to keep the disdain from his tone. The joy in being free with it was too great, certainly much more so than whatever he had left to lose. 

"It's for _you_ , isn't it? What's the matter, uncle, can't get hard anymore? Are you too old? Or maybe it has lost the thrill, now that I will fight back?"

His uncle surged forward and slapped him again. This time he hit the other cheek, a sharp crack with a hand that wore multiple rings, and Laurent thought idly that tomorrow he would likely have matching red marks – a permanent flush that would no doubt be seen as an admission of guilt. He smiled savagely through the pain, and asked, still rich with disbelief, "Did you truly think I would just stand still and let you fuck me?"

Again the silence lengthened. Both of them were aware that in a fight for the vial, Laurent would win, even now. His uncle was not a physically imposing man, nor one prone to actual attack — had it come to a fair fight, they both knew Laurent would win — and so they watched each other cautiously, bodies still, until he spoke, voice faster and angrier than Laurent had ever heard from him. "Your words disgust me, nephew. You would have been nothing but poison for Vere."

"I would have been her king," he replied, and this time he had no trouble finding his most imperious tone. "It was never your place to question me."

"You are nothing but a spoiled princeling, and you would have brought only ruin to her," his uncle insisted, forcefully. Laurent counted his vehemence as another triumph, even as he continued, "All you were ever good for was fucking — and you're clearly not very skilled at that either. Not even rolling over for the Akielon like a bitch in heat has kept you from being here, at my mercy."

Laurent made no response to that. Once more he recalled Damen — so easy to rile — atop the Kingsmeet, revolted and promising death. It was too easy to be comforted by the memory of it, and he had to push it aside. 

His uncle used the silence to study him, and on his next breath the familiar imperturbable expression reasserted itself, rich with satisfaction and control. "You really think you can be king? You want my crown? Here it is, then."

Slowly he raised his hands to the crown on his head, and lifted it off. He laid it reverently on the desk, where they could both see it, where Laurent could, at any other time, have reached out and taken it. He stepped back and said, "Vere is yours, Laurent. Claim her. Be her king."

With his arms trapped behind his back it was impossible, and they both knew it. He could have grabbed the crown —which by rights belonged to him, which he would not allow himself to think about — but not put it on, and the sensation was infinitely worse. Instead of reaching forward he released the vial and curled both of his hands into fists, forcing himself to breathe steadily around the sharp sting of his nails digging into his palms, to concentrate on keeping the lines of his body light and dispassionate.

His uncle was watching him keenly, having stepped away. Laurent redoubled his efforts to disguise the surge of roiling anger within, the desperate, maddening, pull of it. The stillness into which he forced himself was becoming painful, and he turned his thoughts to cataloguing that: the gritting of his jaw, the pain in his hands, the tautness of his back. Here, alone with his uncle, concealment was his only armour and words his only weapon, but as he wrenched his gaze away from the crown he found they would not come. It became clear, too late, what the purpose of this evening had been. Once more they had been playing his uncle's game, and he had not even noticed.

He laughed. It sounded bitter in his own ears, and tasted worse still.

"You see? It is as I've always feared, nephew," his uncle said, reaching for the crown and putting it back on. "You won't even _try_."

Without waiting for a reply, he summoned the guards one more time, and they rushed into the room without delay. Again two of them moved to flank Laurent, one at each side, and grabbed his shoulders, jostling him as they did. The vial of drug clattered to the ground with a tinkling sound that all of them ignored. He did not try to resist.

"Return him to his cell," his uncle commanded, no trace of his unevenness remaining. "Tomorrow we will rule on his crimes. Until then, no one is to speak to him, or to visit him." The last words were an admonition to the soldiers, not to Laurent. That part he had guessed correctly, then. Small satisfaction.

The soldiers gave their assent, and started leading him away. Before they crossed the door his uncle called on them to halt, however, approaching without hesitation.

With a sudden move he ripped the starburst badge from Laurent's chiton. The fabric tore under the sharp tug with a loud sound; only the soldier's crushingly tight grip on Laurent's shoulder kept it in place. "He dishonours the memory of his brother by wearing this," his uncle said, carefully tucking it into one of the folds of his clothes. Once done, he nodded at the soldiers, silent permission to leave.

The words — spoken to others, but unquestionably meant for him — pursued him as they retraced their steps through the palace corridors, emptier in the late night. They were a lie, he reminded himself. Auguste would have been proud of Laurent, who had lost, but had also almost won. It would be unjust of him to behave otherwise: at least in this the two of them were finally, indubitably alike.

But it changed nothing. His brother was dead, and Damen, his improbable champion, should not — _would_ not — come to the rescue tomorrow. He remembered talking, outside Ravenel. Whatever is to fall out between us, he had said, never imagining that he would lay his own life down for Damen's just weeks later.

When they reached his cell one of the guards opened the door, and another one roughly pushed him in, the torn chiton slipping off his shoulder. He staggered forward but a sudden tug at his manacled wrists jerked him back and kept him from falling. Before leaving they released his arms, and after knotting the two ends of the chiton together, he simply rotated them to loosen the stiffened joints, until the motions threatened to become something more, something darker and more raw.

But even in this he was foiled — the emptiness of the cell gave him no easy target for his anger. No plates to sweep off a table, no one to flay with his tongue. He squeezed his eyes shut and leaned his forehead against the wall, counting off a rhythm in his head, imposing steadiness on his breaths. When that did not work he pressed a clenched hand to his mouth, hard, the pain giving him a point to rally about. He forced himself to examine the imprint his teeth left on the skin as dispassionately as he could, as if they weren't his, and repeated the exercise until the throbbing of his pulse faded.

Tomorrow was meaningless, the conclusion long foretold. It had been a foolish fancy, to ever imagine the Council would look at him and wish to see beyond his uncle's lies, to think he had any allies in Vere whose loyalty and affection couldn't be bought. Tonight had been the real battle, and he had fought as best as he knew, and still lost. No doubt his uncle had not thought to find him so intractable — the man's frustration had been genuine, and Laurent's words might have caught him unawares more than once, to little difference in the end. All of Laurent's victories had been little more than calculated concessions, inconsequential in the grander match they had fought.

Losing to Damen's sword had been hard enough, but at least he had wrung no needless cruelty from that defeat, for all that Laurent had thought that his own frustration and disappointment would engulf him. Damen's straightforward deeds, his generous touch, precluded it. His uncle had always been the opposite. 

The memory of Damen's advice at Ravenel, urging him to devise his own games, came unbidden to him. It would not do to face tomorrow like this. He had the whole night to make peace with himself. If small victories were all that remained to him he would have those, and count himself not fortunate, but at the very least true.

It was likely what Damen was doing, trapped in a cell of his own; it was certainly what Auguste would have done. They would have let neither fear nor shame hold sway over them, and Laurent would not either. Neither one of them would ever have gone willingly to their death, but they would have met it with dignity when the time came, and Laurent would do the same.

Tomorrow, he would be like them.


End file.
